The One Where He Writes Back
James,
I don’t know how to start this. I rewrote the first line seventeen times. All of them were terrible. I even tried "Dear James" like we’re in some period drama, but you’re not that kind of boy, are you?
You’re the kind of boy who shows up in people’s lives like a lightning strike. Loud and golden and impossible to ignore. And when you left, I kept hearing the echo of you in my head.
I think I hated your book because I loved it.
I loved it in the way I love music I can’t sing to. In the way I love stars that are already dead. I loved it because it was full of everything I’d spent years trying not to feel. And then you handed it to me like a mirror.
I’ve spent so long trying to be untouchable. Perfect. Sharp around the edges so no one could get close enough to hurt me. But you, you sat next to me in a café and broke through all of it without even knowing who I was. You just were. You were sunshine and certainty and the possibility of something else.
And I didn’t know how to hold that without dropping it.
So I dropped you.
I’m sorry.
That’s really all this is. A very long, very complicated apology.
And a thank you.
For seeing me.
For writing me down, even when I didn’t deserve it.
For meaning it.
The manuscript was beautiful. Painfully so. And I didn’t know if I wanted to cry or scream or kiss you when I read the last line. (It was all three, for the record. I did none. I walked into a wall instead. Graceful, I know.)
If you still want to talk, I’m here.
If not, keep writing.
You’re better than you think you are.
—R.A.B.
P.S.
Page 197 wrecked me.
I hope you know that.